


Hero

by beetle



Category: Deadpool (2016), Deadpool (Comics), Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Attempted Sexual Assault, But Peter can be whichever you want, Clubbing, Deadpool Thought Boxes, Drugged Peter, F/F, First Meetings, M/M, Mentions of Dr. Kurt Conners, Mentions of Henrik Ibsen, Non-Graphic Violence, Other, Peer Gynt - Freeform, Spideypool - Freeform, Zendaya is my Mary Jane
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-09
Updated: 2016-09-09
Packaged: 2018-08-14 02:59:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7996075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter and MJ hit the club together. Things don't quite go as expected. Written for an anonymously donated prompt in my Tumblr Ask. See end notes for full prompt.</p><p>Notes/Warnings: AU, in which “Deadpool” is not a mercenary anymore, but he’s certainly something. And “Spider-Man” doesn’t exist (yet) because Uncle Ben’s violent death didn’t happen/act as a crucible to forge the webbed hero. No redeeming value . . . you’ve heard my song and dance before. No spoilers but TRIGGER: attempted sexual assault and spiking of someone’s drink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hero

**Author's Note:**

  * For [STARFIRE67](https://archiveofourown.org/users/STARFIRE67/gifts).



[White]

{Yellow}

_Deadpool_

 

“Oh. Em. Gee! Peter!” Gwen Stacy giggle-snorted as Peter Parker shuffled out of his room, barely able to move in the damn skinny jeans, face burning under the six layers of make-up. “Oh, my God! You look—”

 

“Like an emo, transvestite-clown prostitute?” Peter finished when Gwen couldn’t seem to. She giggled again, her pale face turning rather alarmingly pink as she dropped her yoga mat near the front door and stepped into the apartment proper, making for the couch and sitting gracefully. All without looking away from Peter. “Yeah. Thanks for the vote of confidence, Gwennie.”

 

“Oh, Peter, don’t get your pretty little panties all in a bunch!” Another snort and Gwen, still wearing her sleek, dark, matching yoga clothes—it was Thursday evening, after all—stood up once more, putting her hands on her hips and looking him over again. "You look . . . very nice. Very much not like a prostitute.”

 

“But definitely like an emo transvestite-clown?”

 

“Stop putting words in my mouth, Peter Parker!” Gwen said sternly, though the twinkle in her eyes and the twitch of her lips was a tell-tale sign she was still laughing on the inside. “You look great, it’s just . . . who convinced you to _wear_ . . . all that?!"

 

" _Your_ girlfriend—my now _EX_ -friend, because I need to go clubbing, apparently." Peter rolled his eyes, sighing at the feel of all the mascara on his lashes when he blinked. “Where _is_ MJ, anyway? She dashed out of my room ten minutes ago, saying she had the _perfect accessory_ , and I haven’t seen her—”

 

“Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah!” MJ’s voice, brassy and strong, sang from behind the partially closed door of hers and Gwen’s room. Then the woman, herself, flung the door wide and danced out, her pixie-cut red hair sticking up like she’d been dragged backwards through a hedge. Magically, she somehow still looked pulled-together and gorgeous. “Behold!”

 

She triumphantly held up what looked like a scrap of black velvet with a . . . small, pewter, spider-shaped pendant dangling from it. It had some sort of purple stone for eyes.

 

“Uh,” Peter said, absently reaching up to scratch his head. But before he could, MJ darted forward to smack his hand away. “Ow!”

 

“Nawp! I spent forty minutes on that hair, Peter Parker! If you even _think_ about touching it, I will literally un-man you!”

 

“Too late for _that_ , I’d say,” Gwen muttered, earning her a glare from both her best friend and her girlfriend. She shrugged, eyes still dancing with far too much amusement. “Wow, I’m sure glad yoga let out early tonight. To think: I coulda missed all _this_!”

 

“Not helping, Tigress,” MJ muttered as she adjusted one spiky lock of Peter’s hair, then settled the scrap of velvet around his neck with the pendant resting on the dip where his collarbones met. At this point, Peter didn’t even put up a fight. MJ had spent hours working on his look—basically _creating_ _one_ for him, other than his usual outfits of gamer t-shirts and sprung jeans or sweats—and probably wouldn’t be deterred by anything short of Armageddon. Even with his so-called “spidey-strength,” Peter did _not_ mess with Mary Jane Watson.

 

“Where’d you _find_ this thing? Why do you even _own_ it, MJ?” he whined as she finally worked the clasp closed and made a happy little sound. Then she was stepping back from Peter, looking him over with glee and a satisfaction so genuine, he couldn’t find it in him to protest at all.

 

“Oh, it was a gift from Flash Thompson, way back when.” MJ shrugged dismissively. “We went out on a ‘date’ in Chinatown and he saw this in a store window and got it for me. What can I say? I woulda preferred the throwing stars, for the same price, but, whatever. I didn’t even remember I had it till I saw how _good_ you look like this! Eeeee! I mean, the collar _really_ pulls the look together, doesn’t it, Gwennie? I don’t think _I’d_ have had the neck for it, but Peter _definitely_ does. Long and graceful, like a swan.”

 

“Mm,” Gwen said noncommittally, eyeing Peter thoughtfully as she took a swig from her half-empty water bottle. Then her eyes drifted to MJ and softened in a way Peter had always envied. No one had ever looked at _Peter_ that way. Probably never would. “You two definitely make quite the pair.”

 

“Don’t we?” MJ took Peter’s arm and posed—looking, in her satin mini-skirt, leather corset, and long silk gloves, like sex on legs . . . if one was into redheaded bombshells which, to the chagrin of many, Peter certainly was _not_ —blowing a kiss at her girlfriend. “It’s not too late for you to get dolled up and come with us, Gwennie-pie. Even last minute, you clean up _real_ purdy, babe.”

 

Gwen rolled her eyes, but smiled nonetheless. “Tempting as that offer is, I still have work to do on that simulation Dr. Connors wanted me to run the numbers for. I have a feeling I’ll be lucky to get any _sleep_ tonight, never mind going clubbing with my best gal and my best pal,” she said, not quite morosely. Peter and MJ shared a knowing glance. Gwen was a workaholic from back in the day. If there was anything she loved more than being busy—besides MJ, of course—Peter didn’t know what it was.

 

“Aw, baby.” MJ pouted preciously, fluttering her thick lashes and widening her cocoa-brown eyes.

 

“Gah! Stop making the puppy-eyes! I will not be moved!” Gwen said, throwing up a hand and marching past a snickering Peter and still-pouting MJ, toward hers and MJ’s room. “I’m gonna take a shower then get started on those numbers. You two have a great time, call me if you need a ride home or something!”

 

The bedroom door shut behind Gwen and MJ looked genuinely sad for a moment. Then she glanced at Peter and brightened again. “Maybe next time! Tonight, it’s just me and thee, Pietro!”

 

“Two working girls, out to make a quick buck,” Peter added dryly, then yelped when MJ pinched his arm somewhat viciously.

 

“Peter, you _do_ look like a rent-boy, and not a cheap one, either. And believe me: that’s a compliment.” MJ rubbed the spot she’d pinched, then swatted Peter’s backside in a business-like fashion. “Okay, Parker, grab what you can’t bear to leave behind—the necessaries: wallet, keys, chapstick, phone—and let’s be on our way!”

 

Sighing, Peter shuffled back to his room to grab the so-called necessaries, wondering how he kept letting MJ talk him into having weird, isolated little adventures—his life was, otherwise, uneventful, and he _liked_ it that way—when all he ever wanted to do was Netflix and chill (alone) play Call of Duty (with his online friends) or catch up on the little sleep he seemed to need.

 

He supposed that Gwen also felt the same way, a lot of the time—and with more reason. Having MJ as a friend required _massive_ amounts of energy. Peter couldn’t _imagine_ having her as a _girlfriend_!

 

#

 

Thankfully, the evening was pretty warm, for early spring. Just as well, since there was a line stretching around the block for the club MJ chose.

 

As they stood on line, MJ talked about her latest role in an off—off-off-off—Broadway production of _Peer Gynt_. Even ran some of her lines with Peter as the line inched slowly forward.

 

“Lies, I know, can be so furbished,” MJ declared in a low, but carrying tone. “And disguised in gorgeous wrappings that their skinny carcasses not a soul would recognize. That's what you've been doing now, with your wonderful adventures—”

 

“Oh, _Hells_ , no, kiddies! Not without some I.D.!”

 

Startled, Peter and MJ looked up to find themselves at the head of the line. As one, they blinked up at the bouncer: 6’2 if he was an inch, broad of shoulder and chest (which were shown off shamelessly in a plain black wife-beater), with big, muscular arms and, from what could be seen of his legs in form-fitting jeans, powerfully sculpted thighs and calves . . . and, apparently, he was covered from the top of his bald head, on down, in raw-looking, raised scars.

 

“Um,” Peter said breathlessly, his eyes wider than dinner plates. The bouncer winked at him playfully, after giving him an unabashed once-over, too, with startling grey-green eyes, then grinned wider and whiter than an ad for toothpaste and happiness.

 

“Oh! Right! I.D.!” MJ giggled a bit nervously, then began digging in her tiny, ridiculous purse for her wallet.

 

Peter, meanwhile, eased his wallet out of the pocket of the suicidally tight jeans. “Here’s, um, my non-driver state I.D. . . . if that’ll do,” he added then blushed, because other than a passport, state I.D. was a pretty rock-solid form of identification.

 

The bouncer took the I.D. card without breaking his gaze from Peter’s. For almost a minute, during which Peter’s heart-rate increased and his blush intensified. He was suddenly quite aware of wanting nothing more than to put his hands on those broad, scarred . . . _sexy_ shoulders and climb the bouncer like a tree. . . .

 

Then those grey-green eyes dropped reluctantly to the card, full, slightly chapped lips moving slightly as he scanned it perfunctorily. A moment later those eyes were meeting Peter’s again as he handed the card back. When he did, their fingers touched and there was a brief crackle of static shock, like they’d both been running their feet on a carpet or something.

 

“Oh!” Peter jumped and laughed a little. The bouncer’s eyes widened then he blinked, his grin turning into a wry smirk.

 

“Wow,” he said, withdrawing his hand slowly. Only for that hand to come back a second later, bearing a stamp with a smiley-face on it. He took Peter’s hand, his thumb rubbing gently across Peter’s knuckles, before he turned Peter’s hand over and stamped his palm.

 

All done without breaking eye-contact.

 

“I’m not tryin’ to skeev on ya, jailbait, but . . . _damn_ ,” the bouncer exhaled on the back of an almost dismayed chuckle. “You are fuckin’ _flawless_.”

 

Peter’s eyes widened again and he turned beet-red, from the feel of his burning face. “Oh! I—I—”

 

“He’s, uh, not jailbait. And neither am I,” MJ added, holding out her I.D. The bouncer nodded, still not taking his eyes off Peter. He just stamped her hand—the side of her wrist, basically; he didn’t even wait for her to hold her hand out palm-side up—and continued staring at Peter, who was trying to smile like he wasn’t completely flustered.

 

“Um,” he said. Then: “I’m Parker. Parker Peter—I mean _Peter Parker_!”

 

The bouncer chuckled again as Peter buried his face in his free hand, nearly crushing his wallet in the other.

 

“Yeah, I kinda gathered. I.D.,” the bouncer said, shrugging those amazing shoulders once more. He gave Peter another shameless once-over, ending again at Peter’s eyes. “I’m Wade.”

 

“Nice to m-meet you, Wade,” Peter stammered, holding out his hand. Wade’s grin widened and Peter’s hand was engulfed in a warm, rough shake . . . that was actually more of a hold.

 

“Pleasure’s _all_ mine, Pete,” Wade rumbled, his low gravelly voice seemingly pitched just for Peter’s ears.

 

And here Peter’d thought he couldn’t blush any harder.

 

“Okay!” MJ grabbed Peter’s wrist and yanked it, breaking the gentle hold Wade had on his hand. “So, are we in?”

 

“What? Oh. Yeah, sure. Have fun, you two crazy kids.” Wade shrugged again, nodding at the closed door through which music could nonetheless be heard blaring.

 

“We will!” Peter could practically hear MJ rolling her eyes as she tugged on his wrist again. “C’mon, Parker. The rhythm waits for no woman.”

 

“Right—uh, thank you for your assistance, um, Wade,” Peter called as MJ dragged him to the door. Wade was staring after them looking almost befuddled, as well as regretful.

 

“And thanks for yours, Pete!” Wade grinned and waved. Then frowned. “Wait— _what_?”

 

“Huh?” Peter asked, equally confused—though glad he’d been of service?—then the door to the club was open, spilling out the kind of thudding and awful music Peter had spent his brief adult life trying very hard to avoid.

 

As the door swung shut again, Peter kept leaning further and further to the right, to keep his last glimpse of Wade, who was doing the same, his grey-green eyes wide as he tilted forward and waved at Peter. . . .

 

Then the door was shut and MJ, after paying their way at the box office, was dragging Peter through the eighth concentric circle of Hell, toward the crowded bar.

 

#

 

Thank fucking Christ the line had pretty much disappeared by midnight.

 

Shortly thereafter, Wade Wilson dragged a stool from against the wall of the club and sat, wiggling his aching toes and flexing his tired feet. Every few minutes, a couple or few club-hoppers and scene-kids would come up, flashing I.D. that was good enough to pass muster or . . . _not_ —Wade really didn’t give a fuck, but _damn_ , some of those fake ones were so bad, it was personally insulting to his intelligence—and sometimes people who’d already gotten in left with people who weren’t the ones they’d arrived with.

 

Wade smiled a little as another such, uh, trio—two guys and one girl—making out and feeling each other up, made their way past Wade and to the corner.

 

“Now _that’s_ amore,” he muttered to himself, rolling his shoulders.

 

{That’s a _damn_ good time, is what _that_ is . . . get rid of that chick and replace her with Mr. Parker Peter, though.} Yellow said wistfully. {Hell, get ridda all _three_ of those yahoos and just take Parker Peter.}

 

[Sounds like someone’s got a crush,] White noted snarkily, and Wade sighed, glancing up at the overcast night sky, bracing himself for yet another argument between the demons on his shoulders.

 

{Oh, c’mon, Eeyore, didja see his _face_? And his _ass_?! Those _eyes_? Holy mother of God! That boy was every wet dream we’ve ever had come true!}

 

[I’ll admit: he _was_ cute. . . .]

 

{Chocolate labs are cute. Geckos are cute. Weasel’s little niece—who must be adopted, thank goodness—is cute. But Parker Peter? He’s . . . _gorgeous_!}

 

[If you insist. But realize that he’s out of our league and even if he wasn’t, he’s got a girlfriend.]

 

{Oh, you mean the pushy, annoying beard?} Yellow snorted derisively. {Yeah, if _she’s_ his girlfriend, I’ll drink a case of Zimas. And as for him being out of our league . . . didja happen to notice the way he was _looking_ at us? _That_ pretty little piece of ass wants the “D,” Wilson-style, and he wants it _bad_. He may very well be light years out of our league, but Parker Peter either _doesn’t_ know, or doesn’t _care_!}

 

[Maybe not before. But who knows what may have transpired in the hours since then and now? Perhaps he’s found someone who’s charming and relatively unscarred to get the “D” from.]

 

Wade groaned, covering his face with his hands and shaking his head.

 

 _White, you are_ such _a Debbie Downer!_

 

[I’m only trying to keep us from getting hurt. Trying to keep it real, as it were. When was the last time, post-Weapon X, that we got someone as pretty and sweet as that boy?]

 

Sighing, Wade didn’t look up even when he heard the door to the club open.

 

 _Never_ , he admitted miserably. _Even before Weapon X, there was never anyone like_ Peter Parker _sniffing around a hot mess like me._

 

[Exactly.] White paused, then went on awkwardly. [I’m not trying to be cruel—]

 

{Good job, then, douche-nozzle.}

 

[—but Yellow can’t see clearly enough where a pretty face—or ass—is concerned to be of any real help to you. And you . . . I’m afraid, tend to get your hopes up with very little provocation.]

 

{Listen, there’s nothing wrong with a little hope, now and then! Sometimes, that’s all we got to get us through this shit-show life! And as for the amount of provocation: Parker Peter was givin’ us the ol’ hairy eyeball. His pupils were dilated and we could all see the pulse at his throat trip-hammering away. He was _attracted to us_. A _lot_. Furthermore—}

 

[I beg to differ,] White interrupted, and Wade groaned again.

 

“Jesus, lemme alone for _five minutes_ , guys,” he moaned, hands sliding up to his hairless, scarred skull. But the two Boxes continued to argue as if he hadn’t even spoken.

 

“Hey . . . are you alright, W-Wade?”

 

Startled, Wade jerked up straight, having forgotten that someone had come outside. He found himself looking into a pair of dark, round, obliquely slanted eyes, framed by thick, long fans of lashes, and surrounded by dark eyeliner or kohl or something. They were the sparkling centerpiece of a face like a renaissance angel: cute, pug nose, sprayed lightly with freckles, peachy-pale skin, naturally pink cheeks, a mouth like a fucking cupid’s bow—all pink and bitten and _perfect_ —delicate jaw, pointed chin, and high cheekbones that any model would kill for. All topped by artfully messy sable hair that spiked and whorled wildly, yet still looked eminently touchable.

 

“Peter,” Wade breathed, smiling. Peter returned the smile so brightly, even the Boxes took notice and stopped arguing. “Hey, kiddo . . . what’s doin’? Ready to, uh, head home? Where’s your, uh, girlfriend?”

 

Peter blushed, looking down at the ground. He was wearing a pair of Converse All-Stars, in red and white. “Oh, that was just—um, that was MJ. She’s my friend. My _best friend’s girlfriend_ , not mine.” He shrugged, that sweet smile turning hapless. “And nah, not heading home, yet. Just . . . needed a breather, y’know? It’s kinda thick in there.”

 

“Yeah. Club-life, yo,” Wade agreed, laughing. Peter joined him.

 

{Fuck, even his _laugh_ is pretty,} Yellow whined. {We are _so_ fucked.}

 

[Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you both.]

 

{Oh, stuff it, Gramma!}

 

“So, your friend’s an actress, huh?” Wade asked, perhaps a little too loud, but anything that’d drown out the Boxes was better than nothing.

 

Peter’s eyes widened and his perfect mouth dropped open. “Yeah—how’d you know?”

 

Wade snorted. “Not too many civilians standin’ around rehearsing _Peer Gynt_ while waitin’ to get into a club.”

 

Peter’s smile was slow and approving. “You know your theater.”

 

“I know _Henrik Ibsen_ ,” Wade corrected, shrugging. “And a few other playwrights. The names in the business, anyway. Williams. O’Neill.”

 

“Wow.” Peter’s dark, made-up brows quirked. “Imagine meeting a fellow theater-fan at _this_ place.”

 

“Yes, imagine,” Wade said mildly, giving Peter the eye again. He wasn’t tall—maybe 5’9 or 5’10, whippet-lean bordering on skinny, poured into jeans so tight, Wade could read the boy’s religion. His over-shirt—a velvet, lavender-colored thing that was unbuttoned and untucked—whipped a bit in the chilly breeze. Under it, he wore a plain white t-shirt. And—

 

“Whoa,” Wade exhaled, leaning closer to Peter and reaching out to the velvet collar that fit so snugly around his long, pale, perfect neck. Peter’s eyes widened and his breath caught, but he didn’t lean away. In fact, he leaned _closer_ to Wade, allowing the other man to touch the little spider pendant that hung from the collar. “That is so fuckin’ _cool_!”

 

“Not as cool as throwing stars,” Peter said dryly, shivering as Wade’s big finger accidentally brushed his skin.

 

“Well, few things are,” Wade said, grinning and slowly letting the pendant drop back to Peter’s skin. He met those dark eyes and that smile, and took a deep breath. “Say, this’s gonna sound kinda forward—and I know, it’s maybe a bit of a dick move, but. . . .”

 

“Yes?” Peter asked breathlessly, when Wade trailed off. Wade licked his lips and no, he wasn’t imagining the way Peter’s eyes followed that movement.

 

“I was thinkin’ we . . . you and I, that is . . . could maybe, after my shift . . . I dunno—I mean, there’s a _Taco Bueno!_ not far from here if—”

 

Just then, the door to the club banged open, startling them both.

 

“ _There_ you are, Peter!” The girl Peter had arrived with— _MJ_ —hurried over, grabbing Peter’s arm and shooting a curious look at Wade before turning back to her friend. “You’ll _never_ guess who I ran into in there!”

 

Peter opened his mouth as if he was maybe going to try, but MJ was already speaking again. “Flash Thompson!”

 

Peter blinked and made a face. “Uh. Okay. Wow. Small world.”

 

“Isn’t it?” MJ bounced up and down and started dragging Peter back to the door. “Anyway, come back inside and say hi! He’s been asking about you, you know?”

 

“Ugh, really?” Peter made another face, this one even more telling. MJ pouted, making ridiculous puppy-eyes, and finally Peter sighed. “Okay, let’s go see Flash Thompson. Um.” He shot an apologetic glance at Wade. “I’ll be back out in a while if, you know, you’re gonna be here for a bit?”

 

“Oh! Yeah, sure! Not goin’ anywhere till three!” Wade said a little too eagerly. But it was worth Peter’s bright smile again, so it wasn’t _so_ bad.

 

“Good.” Peter nodded, seeming quite satisfied with that answer. “That’s . . . good. Tex-Mex is starting to sound like a really good cap to the evening, now that I think about it.”

 

“I’m glad the idea meets with your approval,” Wade replied cheekily, but blushing.

 

“Well, it’s more the prospective company, than the actual Tex-Mex that I’m on-board for. . . .”

 

This time, Wade’s eyes were the ones to go wide, his mouth dropping open in an expression more suited to a village idiot than a bouncer.

 

Then he was waving again as MJ _bodily_ dragged a half-heartedly protesting Peter back into the club.

 

{Now, what was ‘at about keepin’ it real, bruv?} Yellow asked in an affected cockney accent.

 

[Oh, shut up.] For once, White actually sounded flustered. It was enough to make Wade laugh out loud.

 

#

 

Peter Parker felt . . . odd.

 

Like . . . really . . . _really_ not good.

 

Though he hadn’t had any alcohol—just a couple of Cokes; he’d turned twenty last fall, so no alcohol for him, yet—he was still light-headed and more than a little dizzy. His stomach was churning nauseatingly and he couldn’t stop sweating and shaking.

 

“Hey, Parker . . . you okay?”

 

Peter lifted his heavy head off his hand and looked up into Flash Thompson’s pale blue eyes. He tried to smile, but Flash wouldn’t stop being three of himself and Peter wasn’t sure which one he should be smiling _at_.

 

“I feel . . . weird. I . . . I think I should go home. Where’s MJ?” Peter tried to stand and miscalculated several factors, flopping back into the sticky booth seat. Next to him, Flash frowned and slid his arm around Peter’s shoulders.

 

“Uh . . . MJ already left—said she was gonna, uh . . . call it a night. You know how chicks are.”

 

“Oh . . . she left _without_ _me_?” Peter thought he might cry. MJ _never_ left without him. Even if she’d been too tired to stay, she’d normally have told him herself that she was leaving. Peter sniffed. “That was mean.”

 

“Yeah . . . poor Parker. . . .” Flash sighed in commiseration, his arm around Peter tightening. “But if you like, I can give you a ride home. My car isn’t far from here.”

 

“You’d . . . you’d do that? For me?” Peter asked, his vision blurring alarmingly. He wiped his teary eyes as Flash stood, pulling Peter up with him. This time, Peter _stayed_ up.

 

“Sure, Parker. We’re friends, right?”

 

“We are?” Peter was glad Flash seemed so steady, since the world was spinning worse than ever and the crowd was crazy-thick. Peter could barely breathe. It was like there was no oxygen in this place . . . just _bodies_. Moving, thrashing, shimmying. Talking, laughing, _crowding_.

 

Peter whimpered from the sensory overload and hung onto Flash. The other man was taking him _somewhere_ , but Peter could barely tell up from down. “You beat me up, like, every week till sophomore year.”

 

“Ah, kids bein’ kids, y’know? Water under the bridge.” Flash pulled Peter close. His body felt hot and damp, but then, so did Peter’s. “Anyway, even then I always thought you were real cute, Parker.”

 

Peter snorted. “Did not.”

 

“No, I did! Honest!” Suddenly a door opened right in front of them, and Peter staggered at the blast of chilly, fresh air and hissed at the light from nearby streetlamps. “Here, lemme prove it to ya.”

 

In a dizzying move, Flash had Peter pinned up against the wall or door, his big, bulky body pressing against Peter’s. Something hot and hard poked at Peter’s thigh and before Peter could even _begin_ to process _that_ weirdness, a hot, wet mouth was covering his own, hard and biting.

 

“Flash—” Peter tried to say around Flash’s tongue and teeth and lips. “Please— _stop_ —”

 

“But you like this, Parker . . . don’t you?” Flash shoved him into the wall _hard_ , grinding against him roughly. “You liked it in high school and you like it now.”

 

“Get—get _off_ me!” Peter gasped as Flash licked his throat and bit down over his jugular vein with blunt, careless teeth. The world was spinning _so fast_ , like a merry-go-round gone mad, and Peter’s limbs didn’t want to work right at all—he couldn’t marshal even a _tiny bit_ of spidey-strength to push Flash away. Those hot hands were all over him and it didn’t feel nice. Not even a little. “Stop— _please_!”

 

“C’mon, Parker, don’t be a cocktease, just shut up and _take it_ , you little—” Flash suddenly made a winded _oof_ ing sound, his hot hands falling away from their grasp of Peter’s hips. Then Flash disappeared altogether with a startled, pained grunt.

 

Peter opened eyes he hadn’t even been aware of closing. The world was still a spinning, swinging mess and his vision was still pretty fucked. But he could see well enough to make out . . . Wade?

 

Yes. _Wade_. Punching and kicking the crap out of Flash Thompson, brutal and soundless.

 

“No,” Peter mumbled, sliding down the wall, weak as a kitten and with much less coordination. And he could still feel the ghost of Flash's hands all over him. He shuddered and forced away the memory, denying its veracity and the implications of his own weakness. Of the total loss of agency and _power_ he'd suffered at Flash's hands. After all, there was something more important happening here than Peter indulging in what was surely overreaction and hysteria over _nothing_! “Wade, _stop_ —”

 

But Wade _didn’t_ stop. For almost a minute, he just did not. _Stop_. He kicked and punched until Flash was burbling bloodily and pleading for Wade to leave him alone. Until a darker, previously unheard-of part of Peter began radiating grim satisfaction at this just and fitting end for the man who'd tormented him since childhood and then had _dared_ to. . . .

 

 _Nothing_ , Peter told himself, folding and stuffing away the memory of Flash's awful kisses and disgusting touch—the harsh, gross heat of his breath and his hands and his—

 

 _No_ , Peter thought blearily, but with determination. _Not going there. Not tonight. Maybe not ever._

 

"Please . . . stop—" Flash repeated the Peter of just two minutes ago. And he could barely speak for retching up blood and spitting out teeth.

 

“Sorry, chum, I don’t take requests from wannabe-rapists,” Wade apologized, chipper and vicious, landing another kick to Flash’s left kidney. Both Flash and Peter groaned, and this, at last, gave Wade pause. The big man—bigger than Flash, even—turned his gaze, as bright and merciless as his voice had been, to Peter. Some of the brightness and _all_ of the mercilessness leached away.

 

“Jesus, Petey . . . you okay?” he asked, stepping over Flash as if he didn’t exist anymore. As he got closer to Peter, he grew hesitant. But Peter reached out his shaking hand and Wade looked at it for long moments before kneeling and taking it. Pulling it to his rough, scarred cheek. His grey-green eyes were worried, from what Peter could tell. Then Wade closed them. “We should get you to the hospital—I dunno what he slipped you, but it was _somethin’_.”

 

“No . . . no hospital!” Peter slurred, muzzily alarmed. He definitely _couldn’t_ afford to have a trained eye doing lab-work on him and examining his blood. “You can’t—please _don’t_! No hospital, no cops!”

 

Wade opened his eyes, that anger ramping up again, visibly.

 

“No hosp— _Peter_ , kid . . . he drugged you and he was gonna fucking _rape_ you. You’d have woke up in the morning with no idea what’d happened, most likely, and no memory of anything that’d happened after he drugged you. He’d have _hurt you_ and _got_ _away_ with it.” Wade reached out with his other hand and brushed Peter’s hair—sweaty and limp, now—out of his face. “We have to at least make sure that whatever’s in your system doesn’t make you seriously ill, Baby Boy.”

 

“It _won’t_. Trust me . . . it won’t,” Peter said desperately, closing his eyes and leaning into Wade’s touch. His big palm was warm and dry and rough. It felt so nice. . . .

 

Peter just wanted to fall asleep like this.

 

Just . . . like . . . this. . . .

 

“—gotta at least get some kinda evidence of what this prick did. And _tried_ to do,” Wade was saying—growling. “Can’t let him try this shit again with someone else who maybe won’t be so lucky.”

 

Peter smiled a little. The cool air felt bracing on his face, but lulling, too. Everything was okay, now. Wade had saved him from . . . from something Peter refused to look at directly, but it'd been . . . not good. He could acknowledge that much, anyway. “Mm . . . I _am_ lucky . . . my hero. . . .”

 

Wade snorted. “Well, I’ll be _yours_ all day, every day, baby, but I’m definitely not a _hero_.”

 

“ _My hero_ ,” Peter insisted, forcing his mostly non-compliant eyes open. Wade was watching him worriedly. “I’ll be fine; I just need to sleep it off. But please, Wade . . . no hospital and no cops.”

 

Those vivid eyes narrowed. “Any particular reason why?”

 

Peter bit his lip and looked down, fighting not to spill the entire truth to Wade in one breathless glurt. “Please,” he whispered at last, shakily.

 

After a minute, Wade sighed and let go of Peter. When Peter looked up, it was to see Wade standing over Flash Thompson, looking disgusted and like he wanted to kick the other man some more. A _lot_ more. And though Peter felt as if he should be the first person to cheer should Wade start waling on the other man again . . . he didn't want to see _Wade_ hurt someone else in his name. Not because _Flash_ deserved any sort of leniency after . . . that awful thing that had happened. But because _Wade_ was so much _better_ than that kind of vengeful violence. He was righteous and kind and brave, and those qualities shone from him like a bright light Peter could not only see, but bask in the warmth of.

 

Wade Wilson was _better_ than stomping Flash Thompson into the pavement no matter how deserved said stomping might be. And Peter would do his best to prevent Wade from sullying himself any further over _Peter's_ inattention and stupidity. . . .

 

But thankfully, instead of picking up where he'd left off turning Flash into a sidewalk stain, Wade bent over Flash and patted him down, coming up with a wallet some seconds later. He rifled through it, pulling out what looked like an I.D. card, then dropped the wallet on Flash’s prone body like trash.

 

“Now, I know where you _live_ , Eugene Thompson,” Wade said, his voice pleasant and flat. “And I’mma be seein’ ya _real_ soon.”

 

Flash groaned again, rolling onto his side away from Wade.

 

Then Wade strode over to Peter again, pocketing the I.D. He looked down at Peter, worry and consideration all over his scarred face. Then he darted down and scooped Peter up as if he weighed nothing, holding him close. “Mmm.” Peter wrapped weak, shaking arms around Wade’s neck and smiled, closing his eyes as Wade began walking. He felt . . . incredibly safe. Taken care of. “My hero.”

 

“For you, Baby Boy? Sure, I’ll be a hero. I’ll be a _super_ hero,” Wade said gently, humoring Peter as he somehow opened the door to the club again and horrible house music assaulted Peter’s ears.

 

“You already are,” Peter said, certain Wade wouldn’t hear him over the din purporting to be music. But Wade looked at him, surprised and strangely vulnerable. . . .

 

Then he smiled and kissed Peter’s forehead tenderly, occasioning a soft sigh.

 

“I’m such a goner,” he murmured against Peter’s damp skin. Yet he didn’t exactly sound displeased about his goner-status. “But then,” he leaned back to give Peter a wry look. “You already _know_ that, don’tcha, Parker Peter?”

 

Peter grinned, crooked and loopy. “Yep. We goners c'n smell our own,” he admitted, feeling hot about the face once more. Wade crooked one hairless brow, then smirked.

 

“ _Oh_ , yeah,” he said confidently as he let them into a small room just past the box office. It looked like an employee lounge, complete with the requisite dirty mini-fridge in one corner; moldering, old sofa; and rickety, ancient chairs surrounding a large folding table. “Keepin’ _you_.”

 

 _Please, do_ , Peter meant to say, but then, with a final lurch, the world went completely dark . . . leaving him with no other anchor than Wade’s strong arms around him and that low, gravelly voice in his ear: telling him about how okay everything was going to be and how he was gonna take Peter to _Taco Bueno!_ as soon as he felt up to it.

 

“. . . all the enchiladas you can eat, kiddo. . . .”

 

And really, what more anchor did Peter need?

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: _"Who convinced you to wear that?!" "My now EX-friend, because I need to go clubbing, apparently."_
> 
> [Follow me on Tumblr](https://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com/)!


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